I feel her heart beating against my chest.

Slow and steady, its rhythm synchronizing with my own.

I breathe deeply, her scent washing over me in waves.

It’s all I can do not to trap her as she steps away from me. Her eyes meet my own as she does, pulling me into the endless blue depths that swim there.

Isobel.

Yesterday, I had no idea that she even existed. Today, she consumes me entirely.

Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t believe in love. I only believed in lust. Raw, angry, passionate, but fleeting.

Before today, I had never felt the insistent pull that now tethers my heart to her own.

I spent my life surrounded by violence and dread.

Then somehow, this morning, I woke up filled with hope.

Millions of foreign ideas dance in my mind with every simple glance in her direction. Thoughts of love and happiness, a future free from bloodshed.

Things I would never even have conceived before as possible.

I only have to look into those eyes to know it.

As she looks back at me, I feel my thoughts echoing in her stare.

I’m not the only one who’s been a victim of being born to a famous crime family. Isobel knows that pain as well. Maybe that’s what draws us together—or maybe it’s something else entirely.

I don’t know the cause, only the effect that it’s taken on my once hardened heart.

I am hers.

She is mine.

Mine.

I break from my thoughts, looking around the courtyard.

Benny and Merc are watching us silently, different emotions playing across their faces.

Benny wears a look that somewhat resembles relief. I know that he’s happy to see what Isobel means to me, no matter the implications.

Merc, of course, looks more than a little hesitant.

I really can’t blame him. We all know what our relationship might mean.

Their stares weigh heavily on me, intruding on a moment that I suddenly feel we should be alone for.

“Come with me,” I say, grasping her hand firmly in mine.

She doesn’t resist or fight me. Instead, she simply grips my hand in return, legs already moving to match pace with mine.

I steer us away from the courtyard and towards the tree line marking the woods.

I know exactly where we should go.

We cross underneath the evergreen canopy in a rush, the crunch of pine needles sharp in the still morning air.

It’s still early. The woods and its inhabitants are only starting to climb slowly from their storm-induced slumber.

“Where are we going?” she asks, looking around curiously.

“Just trust me,” I answer.

Her black slip dress offers little protection from the elements. Every so often, water droplets fall from the surrounding pines and onto her bare skin. Her feet are shod in thin slippers, occasionally sliding on the wet undergrowth.

Still, she doesn’t ask any more questions. She doesn’t demand to know our destination.

She trusts me to lead her as I’ve asked, a fact that sends affection soaring through my chest.

We walk for several more minutes, content in the silence that settles comfortably between us, before we reach the clearing.

This is my own version of an oasis. Tucked deep into the forest, it’s a place where I can come and be alone.

Today I don’t want to be alone, though.

I may never want to be alone again.

Today I want to share this place with her, as I want to share everything.

I hear her laugh beside me as she finally sets eyes on our destination.

“It’s…a shooting range?” she asks.

I turn to her, smiling. “Ever done this before?”

She laughs again, louder this time. “Are you kidding? Of course not.”

I pull her over to the range itself, excitement building in my chest.

“Why not?” I ask, though I know already.

“You saw the way I lived. I wasn’t even trusted to go outside. You think they’d give me a gun?”

I nod, encouraging her to continue.

“I spent my whole life surrounded by armed guards. They got to have the guns, not me.”

“You think they didn’t trust you?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes.

“Of course they didn’t trust me. My father probably thought I’d be just as likely to turn a gun on myself as to use it for protection. I was their prisoner. You don’t give prisoners weapons.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer, knowing the words are small but needing to speak them anyway.

“I hate them,” she says. “I hate every last one of them. Especially my father. How could he do that to me?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because I truly I don’t.

I know that our families are mad for power, but some things seem beneath them.

“I don’t know how your family could do the things they do or mine for that matter. It’s funny how we were brought up differently,” I say. “You’re a captive, and I’m a killing machine.”

We sigh as one, our desperation radiating through the sound.

“I thought my family would destroy me completely,” I continue. “Before I met you, this is really the only safe place I had left. I would just spend hours here, venting all of this rage through shooting. That’s why I brought you here. I think it might help you, too.”

She looks at me in surprise before directing her gaze back to the shooting range.

“I don’t know...” she trails off.

“Trust me,” I say, reaching behind me to free my gun from its holster.

I offer it to her with the grip facing her, and smile as she takes it without further question.

She turns it in her hands, eyes raking across it slowly.

The gun is ornate, one of a kind.

Delicate etchings trace the silver barrel, spiraling towards the grip.

A quote is inscribed across its length.

She reads it aloud, her fingers tracing the words.

“These violent delights have violent ends,

and in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Which, as they kiss, consume...”

Her eyes are filled with tears when she looks at me, a grave fire, passion and power warring for dominance within them.

“Show me,” she says.

I step behind her, my arms wrapping tightly around her slight form.

I position the gun properly between her hands, guiding her finger to the trigger as I do.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods.

Together, we squeeze the trigger, the roar of gunfire erupting through the quiet of the forest.

Her body tenses at the first eruption, and visibly relaxes by the second.

After the third shot, I release my hold on her, trusting her to continue alone.

I step back, watching her in fascination.

It’s unclear if she even knows I’ve moved, with her attention focused unwaveringly at the target ahead and her finger squeezing repeatedly at the trigger.

Holes blast across the target in quick succession, splintered bits flying wildly about the range.

Her lips pull back, half sneering.

Power washes off her in waves.

A fire erupts in her eyes, seeming to burn through the normal cool blue of her gaze. The look is completely foreign on her face, though it’s one which I’m quite familiar with.

I see it often.

Every day, in fact.

In the mirror.